


Decadence

by penny



Series: FMA in Roanapur [5]
Category: Black Lagoon, Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Community: come_shots, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penny/pseuds/penny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boris provides Kimberly with an alibi all night long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> For the come shots theme _black silk_

Hotel Moscow men don't generally come to the Yellow Flag. There's a bar close to the Bougainvillea Trade Company, and the Hotel Moscow folks like sticking close to home. So Kimberly's surprised to see Hotel Moscow's second, Boris, walk into the Flag.

He nods as he settles on the stool next to Kimberly. "Vodka," he says to Bao. "A real bottle."

Bao's quick with it. Almost as quick as he is with the Lagoon chick, though with considerably less lip. Boris doesn't need warnings, won't take them from anyone but his leader.

"Comrade," Kimberly says, raising his glass.

Boris frowns. "We are not comrades." It could be Kimberly's imagination, but his accent sounds thicker, as if to emphasize the fact he's Russian and Kimberly is not.

"Figured I'd try those manners the boss is trying to drill into me." Kimberly shrugs. "How's Commie fucker?"

"Better." He clinks his glass against Kimberly's. "Capitalist pig."

"Flag's not your normal haunt."

"How observant."

"Fine." Kimberly motions to Bao for a refill. "I don't like small talk anyway."

"I have been instructed to provide you and your boss with an alibi for tonight. Call him. We will go out."

Oh? Kimberly straightens up. How interesting. Boris only follows instructions from one person. And if he and Archer will need an alibi, it means whatever's going to happen, they won't be able to buy off the cops.

"So your boss has a soft spot for my boss? How touching. I'm sure we'll be best of friends by the end of the night, then." He rose and rolled his shoulders. The right popped -- goddamn wet season settling in -- and Kimberly kept working the tension loose and he sauntered over to the phone to call Archer. Fuck, he's getting old. He'd be too old soon if Archer didn't start using him more, giving him things to keep his skills sharp. Gym exercises could only keep a man so spry.

He tries Archer at the office first. Bastard's always at work, even more so since that Cain woman's left four months ago. Kimberly traces the tattoo on his left palm as Archer's office phone rang. Cain. Bradley's troubleshooter. He'd enjoyed working with her. Hadn't enjoyed being the true reason for her visit. Sometimes, he could still feel the echo of her gun --Vanessa, she'd named it -- inside him, safety off, Cain's finger on the trigger, as she asked him if he knew Hughes had been CIA. And the unspoken question: if he was passing intel to them.

Archer picks up on the fifth ring. "Yes?"

"Got a party invite for you, boss. Hotel Moscow's second wants to show us the sights."

Silence. "I see," Archer finally says, his voice carefully neutral, which means he knows something. Something he hasn't shared with Kimberly. "Where are you?"

Kimberly clenches his fist. Archer hasn't been using him much since Cain left. Hasn't been telling him much, either. He's gone through a couple of spells like this in his various positions in Bradley's organization, just not with Archer. It bothers him more with Archer. "Yellow Flag," he says.

"I'll come straight there."

"I'll have a drink waiting."

"I'm sure I'll enjoy it." Archer's voice is crisp, distant. Kimberly frowns and isn't even sure which of them hangs up first.

He rejoins Boris at the bar. The scar below his left rib, the one Hughes had given him when he killed him, itches, and Kimberly feels restless. Boris isn't going to tell him anything, at least not anything his boss hasn't authorized, and he really can't get pissed at the man for staying in his boss's good graces.

But he can get pissed at Archer. He motions to Bao. "Think my boss will want a Shirley Temple. Extra cherries."

Bao's expression doesn't change. That's a bad sign. "Just as long as he knows it's from you."

Kimberly flashes him a Crimson grin. "Already told him I'd have it waiting."

* * *

Archer's impeccably dressed as always. He doesn't even bat an eye at the Shirley Temple Kimberly has waiting for him. "Boris," he says, nodding at the man. "I hear you want to show us the sights."

"I have been instructed to provide you and your man with an alibi for the night. We will go to the GoofFest. It is very crowded. We will make a point to be seen."

"I see," Archer says, and that cool mask of his doesn't slip. His gaze slides briefly to Kimberly, and then he's fucking looking over Kimberly to Boris. "Well, then, if you're ready, I'm sure it will be an enjoyable night."

"I think we have enough time to finish our drinks," Boris says, and when Kimberly glances at him, he's smiling, faintly. "The Flag is also very crowded." He raises his glass, clinks it against Kimberly's, raises it to toast Archer.

Archer's eyes slide to Kimberly again, and it is kind of nice to know he's gotten to the bastard, even if it is a stupid, petty move. Archer raises his glass, offers them both his extra cherries.

Boris passes on his. Kimberly's tastes pretty good with the rum. Archer knocks back his drink like it's real, and Kimberly can't decide if it's a good or a bad sign. Archer's sense of humor is difficult to gauge. He could actually be amused. Or he could be annoyed, and since he knows Kimberly, also knows not to show it.

"May I suggest having the next round at," Archer's face twitches, but then his mask is back in place, "the GoofFest."

"We will let you order," Boris says, signaling something to Bao.

They leave, and Bao doesn't harass them for more money, so Kimberly makes note to remember the signal. The last time the Flag saw the wrong end of a gunfight, Hotel Moscow footed the repair bills. Archer probably knows if Hotel Moscow owns the place. Still, information is currency.

It's not far to Rachiada Street. Jackpot's face tightens when he sees Boris -- no love between him and Hotel Moscow; plenty of fear on his part -- but he orders one of his girls -- blonde, big tits, narrow waist, golden, oiled skin -- show them to a table near the stage. "Only the best for you," Jackpot shouts over the music, forcing a smile.

Boris nods, pulls out a roll of US cash, tips the hostess, then divides the rest between the three of them. "Enjoy the show, gentlemen. Compliments of Balalaika."

"Your boss is being quite generous," Archer says.

"She would prefer not having to take the time to train your replacement."

In Roanapur, that's practically a declaration of love. At the very least, it's a nod of respect. The Hotel Moscow bitch would only put this much effort for a small handful of people.

Their waitress is Thai girl, emphasis on the girl. Kimberly's a bit surprised to see her out here. He knows Jackpot uses them in the back, where paying customers can do more than sneak a quick grope, but the last time business brought him here, Jackpot had only had the big-titted blondes serving.

Archer places the order, beer for Kimberly, vodka for him and Boris. Well, guess he was amused by the Shirley Temple stunt. If he'd been annoyed, Kimberly would be drinking coffee. Pissed, and he'd be drinking water.

The only thing the GoofFest has going for it, besides being very public, is that the music is blessedly loud. No conversation here. Of course, since their goal is to be seen, so others can also provide them with that going to be needed alibi, it means they have to pretend to be into the dancing.

Kimberly wore himself out on strip clubs back in the US, before he was legally allowed to be in them. Chicks shaking their tits and ass is tantalizing for all of about two seconds the first time you see it, and Kimberly's never been fond of cunt he has to buy. Can't really blame the women -- if that's all the have to sell, why not? -- but that doesn't mean he has to be the sucker who pays for it.

From the tense set to Archer's shoulders, he's not any happier to be here. Even Boris looks a little miserable. The GoofFest caters to foreign tourists, not locals, and the place is pretty sad. Most of Jackpot's money comes from his back rooms and his movies, and he puts just enough effort into the club to make it a believable enough front that his bribes to the police don't cut too far into his profit margin.

At one thirty in the morning, there's a faint rumble. Kimberly feels more than hears it, recognizes it as a bomb. From the faint tremor, it's pretty far away, either in downtown Roanapur or a ship in the harbor, though Kimberly's bets on downtown. It would feel different coming from the harbor.

He tucks a five in a Chinese chick's g-string, risks a quick glance at Archer. Bastard's expression is still smooth, and he's purposively keeping his attention on the stage, though Kimberly catches him clench, then relax, his jaw.

Boris's shoulder bumps against his. Kimberly settles back, lets Boris tip the dancer. Boris meets his eyes briefly, doesn't exactly nod, but his expression shifts, and Kimberly figures it would probably be wise to signal for another round. One more empty beer bottle on the table might make a difference.

Or might not. At two, Chief Watsup walks in with plenty of backup. They're all half-watching the door, and neither Boris nor Archer seems surprised when Watsup heads straight for them, his expression grim.

"You're a strange trio," Watsup says.

"Oh?" Archer says.

"I didn't think you were in this tight with Hotel Moscow."

Archer runs his thumb along the rim of his shot glass. "Next time, I hope to enjoy Miss Balalaika's company." He smiles faintly at Boris. "Though having confessed that to her second, I'm sure that won't happen."

"Miss Balalaika is very busy," Boris says.

"I suppose you've been here all night," Watsup says, eyeing the beer bottles littering the table.

"Since ten." Archer smiles and stretches out. "Give or take about fifteen minutes."

"You want to come with me to the station and tell me that?"

"If we need to," Archer says.

"Yeah, this time you do."

* * *

The target was in downtown Roanapur, one of the new high-rises. Watsup had separated them, took them down to the station in three different cars, the set them up in three different rooms. The soundproofing wasn't so good, and Kimberly could hear the rise and fall of some cop yelling at either Archer or Boris in their interrogation.

Watsup conducts Kimberly's interrogation. "You don't mind if Mister Black watches, do you?" Watsup asks, settling down across the table from Kimberly.

Kimberly glances over at the American leaning against the door. Guy's dressed in civilian clothes, but he screams Agency. "Mister Black." Kimberly shrugs. "Sure."

"Tell me whose handiwork this is." Watsup fans a series of photographs out on the table. The high rise. The shots are stills from a tape, one that shows the building as it explodes. C4 probably. A nice, controlled blast. Minimal collateral damage.

Kimberly shrugs again. "A professional."

"Thanks, asshole. Which one?"

Another shrug. "Nobody I recognize."

"You sure? Take a good hard look."

"It's not my handiwork."

Watsup snorts. "Yeah, you stick around the scene. Like to be close."

Kimberly smiles. Yes, he does. Reckless of him, but here, the cops are easier to bribe. "And I'm out of touch. Word is, I'm looking at retirement." He hasn't actually heard that, but four months in inactivity? Archer shutting him out of the loop? He's reckless, not stupid.

Mister Black straightens at that.

"Yeah, there are a lot of rumors in this city." Watsup scoops up the photographs. "You're free to go. Not that it will do much good, but should you suddenly remember whose handiwork this is, give me a call."

"I'll do my best as a law abiding citizen." Kimberly rises and stretches. His shoulder doesn't pop this time, but it feels stiff. Too much sitting. Too much beer, too, probably.

He refrains from taunting Mister Black on the way out. He also refrains from looking for an Agency tail. If they're good, he's not sober enough to notice them.

* * *

Boris is waiting for him, leaning against one of Hotel Moscow's sedans. "Comrade," he says, stepping aside to open the rear door.

"What happened to capitalist pig?"

"We can be comrades in front of the police." He nods, eyes fixed on something over Kimberly's shoulder. "And because your own country's not treating you as a comrade."

Kimberly looks back at the station as he slides into the car. Mister Black. Interesting.

Boris moves around the back of the car and joins Kimberly in the back seat. He gives the driver Kimberly's address.

"Front door service? Your boss is generous."

"Your boss will think so. She's waiting for him to leave the station."

"Why the attention?"

"The night is not over. I am to provide you with an alibi."

Kimberly makes a show of yawning and stretching. "Not another strip club, I hope." He flexes his feet, and his ankle pops. Loudly.

"You're getting too old for these late nights, decadent capitalist."

"Fuck you too."

Boris chuckles. They ride in silence back to Kimberly's place. Boris exits with him, and the driver speeds off before Kimberly's finished unlocking the lobby door. "Neighborhood's not that bad," Kimberly says.

"We don't linger where we're not needed." Boris's footfalls are heavy behind him on the stairs.

"Yet here you are."

"You still need an alibi." Boris moves closer, so Kimberly can feel his breath on the back of his neck as he unlocks both locks.

"So does my boss. Your boss bump you off that duty?"

"She let me choose." Boris stays close as they move into Kimberly's apartment.

"Yeah?" Kimberly doesn't turn around. Something smells off. He flicks on the lights. Nothing out of place, at least on a first glance. "You make your decision based on your wants or hers?"

"I like you more than your boss. She likes your boss more than you."

He turns to Boris. "And why do I still need an alibi?"

Boris smiles. There's a series of booms, an explosion, close, because Kimberly's windows rattle, and even on the third floor, he can feel the rumble through the floor.

"What's that target?"

"CIA safehouse."

"And downtown?"

"A small office." Boris shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs tucked into the tiny dining alcove. "The Americans are stepping up their presence in Roanapur. There are many people unhappy with that."

"Seems rather stupid taking them head-on like that."

"Yes. The Americans will find an evidence trail. The people at the other end of it will be unhappy."

"Ah." Kimberly strips off his suit jacket. It smells like the GoofFest, like smoke and sweat. He hangs it on the hook on the bathroom door. He doesn't want it in his closet fouling up his clean clothes.

Still no evidence someone's been riffling though his things. Kimberly makes a slow circuit of his place. Everything is in order, even the equipment he keeps at home -- a couple of knives and some brass knuckles; nothing that can link him to his true specialty -- complete with the threads he uses to detect tampering.

Boris is straddling one of the chairs. "They've been here, of course."

"Yeah, I can smell it." He can't say exactly what the smell is, just that it's not right. Not enough from the street, he finally decides, like someone's sanitized the place.

"Stop pacing. You look like a caged animal."

"Something graceful, I hope." Kimberly peeked out of the window. He can't see the flames from the last bomb, though he can see an orange glow to the west. He lets the curtain fall back in place and resumes his pacing.

"Why graceful instead of powerful?"

"Because if you compare me to a bear or ox, I'm going to shoot you the next time I get my hands on a gun."

"Ha!" Boris rises. "I'm the bear, comrade. You don't have enough bulk to be an ox. Or a bull."

"Still with the comrade? Trying to tell me the place is bugged?" He stops in the doorway to the bedroom and turns to Boris.

Boris shrugs. He's only a couple of steps away from Kimberly, and he closes the distance quickly. He grabs a handful of Kimberly's shirt, forces Kimberly back into the bedroom.

Kimberly gets his hand on Boris's wrist. Boris grabs him by the belt, lifts, and there's no strain on his face, barely any shift in his footing. The message is clear enough, Kimberly guesses. He's nothing for such a big, strong Russian bear to handle.

Boris tosses him back into the bed, leans with it because Kimberly doesn't let go of his wrist. He's got a knee between Kimberly's thighs on the bed, his palm braced on the mattress at Kimberly's ear, curls the hand Kimberly's holding back into his shirt. He grins down at Kimberly, and Kimberly realizes it's in answer to his own grin.

"Guess you want to give them a show." Kimberly wiggles. "Comrade."

"Take these off." Boris tugs at his shirt, then lets go and pushes up. He repositions himself so he's straddling Kimberly. He strips off his shirt, and fuck, he wasn't joking about being a bear.

Kimberly unbuttons his shirt, unbuckles his belt, wiggles out of his pants and boxers. Boris shifts again so he can remove his pants, and Kimberly can't help his laugh. "You're calling me a decadent capitalist?" he asks, reaching out to finger Boris's boxers. Black silk.

"This is not Russia," Boris says, grabbing Kimberly's wrist and guiding his hand to cup his erection. "I am allowed some decadence."

"So this isn't about just providing me with an alibi."

"There was a third target. Bigger. That bomb did not go off." He squeezes Kimberly's wrist.

Kimberly starts stroking him through his boxers. The silk is soft under his hand, and he tries to imagine what it must feel like to wear. He's never been given to that kind of decadence. He could be convinced to give it a try, because it feels good under his hand.

Boris leans over him again. His bulk should be imposing, but Kimberly's no weakling, and he didn't get to be an old fuck by playing nice. He squeezes Boris's cock, can barely get his fingers all the way around it, can feel it when Boris chuckles.

"Will you let me fuck you?"

"Well aren't you a gentleman? Asking and shit."

"Yes." Boris reaches down and takes Kimberly in hand, and his palm is broad enough that practically got all of Kimberly's shaft. Kimberly can't help the little noise he makes.

"Lube's in the dresser," Kimberly says. "Condoms too."

Boris reaches for the dresser drawer. He still has one hand on Kimberly's cock, not stroking so much as rubbing his thumb slowly beneath the ridge of the head. Kimberly rocks up into his hand, and his own rhythm on Boris's cock is starting to falter, but Boris seems to enjoy the attention, because Kimberly can feel Boris's precum soaking through the silk.

"So," Kimberly manages, and then he has to take a moment, because Boris has flipped open the lube and is starting to open Kimberly up, the fingers at his hole as slow and firm as his thumb running over the head of Kimberly's cock. "What would have happened...if that third bomb had blown?"

"Then perhaps the rumors about you would have been true."

"Would you have killed me?"

"You're Archer's man, not Hotel Moscow." Boris grins at him, and it's not _friendly_, but it's playful enough for what they're doing. "You should be grateful your boss has so much faith in you."

Boris is taking his time opening him up, being _gentle_. Kimberly clenches around his fingers. "Hurry up," he says.

Boris smiles, and that's a change from his normal dour expression. "Patience."

"Stop treating me like I'm going to break and fuck me already."

"Patience," Boris repeats, and then he angles his fingers just right, and Kimberly's not sure what he snarls, is not even sure why he doesn't come, because Boris's hand is firm on his cock, but not that firm.

"There we are," Boris says, and he thrusts up into Kimberly's hand. "Help me out of these. I'd rather not take my hands off you."

"Ha." He's happy enough to follow the order. He works the boxers past Boris's hips, and Boris shifts so they slide down far enough for him to kick them off. Then he kneels between Kimberly's legs, and then, unfortunately, he removes his fingers, lets go of Kimberly's cock, reaches for a condom.

Kimberly curses, shivers a bit because all that attention worked up a sweat. But Boris is quick, and then he's wrapping both hands around Kimberly's waist to move him into position. Then he's pressing into Kimberly, and fuck, all that gentle preparation _had_ prepared him. He's not used to it just feeling good, feels a bit cheated, in fact.

But then Boris curls a hand back around Kimberly's cock, and Kimberly figures he can enjoy the decadence. Boris does feel damn good inside him.

Boris leans down and licks the sweat from Kimberly's collarbone.

"Fuck," Kimberly says, shuddering. Boris is fucking him slow and deep, and it's _almost_ enough, but not quite, and every time Kimberly tries to get him to hurry, Boris just smiles and says, "Patience," and Kimberly curses and claws at his shoulders until Boris grabs both of Kimberly's hands and pins them over Kimberly's head.

"Bastard," Kimberly breathes, clenching his hands.

"Are you going to behave?"

"What are you, my mother?"

Boris chuckles and shifts so he's pinning Kimberly's wrists with one hand. He resumes stroking Kimberly's cock. "Better?"

"Harder," Kimberly says, hitching his hips. "Faster. Come on, you fuck."

"No," Boris says, leaning closer so he's nearly smothering Kimberly with his bulk. "My pace."

"Your pace is too fucking --" Kimberly breaks off with a hiss as Boris thrusts in deep and just holds there, so Kimberly's full and stretched wide and pinned so he can't move, can't even thrust his hips because Boris is too solid against him. Boris squeezes his cock, runs his thumb under the ridge, and there, that's enough. Kimberly clenches his teeth and comes.

What little writhing he manages is, apparently, enough to send Boris over the edge. Kimberly feels him pulse deep within him, feels the moist heat on his shoulder as Boris grunts.

Kimberly catches his breath. "So, how much longer do you need to provide me with an alibi?"

Boris is, unsurprisingly, gentle as he withdraws. "Until morning. A driver will come to take you to Archer's office."

"Guess you want to share the bed, then."

"I intend to give you a very solid alibi." Boris settles down next to him. "If you behave, I'll even fuck you the way you want, capitalist pig."

"Yeah?" Kimberly stretches. Nothing pops this time. "Do your best, commie fuck."

* * *

From the little smirk Archer flashes him as he sits, Kimberly's not entirely successful in hiding his wince. Boris had made good on his promise, perhaps a little too well. "I see the two of you got along," Archer says.

"Better than you got along with that fry face bitch?"

Archer smiles.

"So, you going to start using me again?"

"Probably not soon enough for your tastes. Thanks to Hotel Moscow, I've narrowed down my spy to four possible suspects. You are, unfortunately, still one of them." Archer props his elbows on the desk and leans forward. "I do hope you understand. The evidence I gather, and the actions I take, must past muster with Bradley. I can't use you until _he_ is certain of you."

"If you tell me I need to be patient, I'm planting a bomb in here the next time you go home."

Archer's smile widens. "Hardly. _I_ can't use you right now, but last night's operation convinced Hotel Moscow you're clean enough. I'm lending you to them while I finish tracking down my spy." The smile turns smug. "I'll need you in top form when I can use you again."

"I was getting bored."

"Hotel Moscow will keep you busy. They're having trouble with the Columbians again."

"And you're certain I will come back?"

Archer meets his eyes calmly. "If I thought you were my spy, I'd have killed you myself."

Kimberly rises. "So glad you'd do me that courtesy, boss."

"In addition to you being in top form, I also expect thorough reports on Hotel Moscow's operations. I know they won't let you into the inner circle, but you should see enough to assess their soldiers' strengths and weaknesses."

"Planning to start a war with them?"

"Hotel Moscow has been a valuable ally since I've come here, and I do not wish to do anything to change that." Archer smiles again, cold and tight. "But I also wish to be prepared in case something does change."

"Thinking something will?"

Archer shrugs. "US activity in the area is increasing. The extra scrutiny makes the organizations nervous. Watch your mouth at Hotel Moscow. Balalaika will not find you as entertaining as I do."

"I know how to be good, boss." Kimberly considers his tattoos. "Also know how to make appropriate thank yous. I was getting pretty bored."

"The car you arrived in should still be waiting." This time, Archer's smile is amused. "Best to keep you with consistent alibis for the time being. I understand if you're very good, the Sergeant may even be providing more of them."

"Well then, I'll have to be a very good boy for Miss Balalaika." Kimberly mock bows. "Take care of this soon. I like working for you."


End file.
